Warhound drops from the rooftops in a controlled fall, boots striking the pavement with a muted thud. He releases Pin just before landing, setting her down beside the cracked pavement near the hotel's side entrance.
"Wait here," he says, already turning his attention outward. "I'll check the building." Pin nods quickly, eyes bright despite the ruin around them. "Okay. I'll stay." Warhound moves off without another word.
Up close, the hotel looks worse than it did from afar. Entire sections of its exterior are torn open, windows shattered inward rather than blown out, as if something forced its way through the structure instead of around it.
The damage isn't uniform. Some floors were barely touched, while the others look gutted, corridors exposed to open air.
Whatever did this wasn't just passing by, it was searching. Hunting for something, or someone.
That makes it dangerous. But it also suggests finality, the severity of the destruction done to the hotel suggests that the threat has already moved on. He slips inside through a warped entrance and pauses as the smells hit him.
Dust, smoke, cleaning chemicals, perfume, cologne, everything a hotel ever tried to hide now crushed together into one overwhelming stench. He decided to abandon the idea of using his nose and relies on his ears instead.
The building groans softly as it settles. Loose debris shifts somewhere above. There were no voices, no running footsteps or signs of panic echoing through the halls. If there were signs of a survivor, he would pick it up.
He takes the stairwell, climbing steadily. At every landing he stops, listening, letting the silence speak for itself rather than take time to search the entire area. Whatever happened here was fast and violent, like an unstoppable force.
Warhound tries to use his nose out of instinct again and immediately shuts that sense down. The mix of scents was so thick and chaotic that even an injury would go unnoticed.
Useless. Might as well be blindfolded.
Floor by floor, he clears the hotel. Guest rooms lie open, the beds overturned and luggage ripped apart. Some rooms remain untouched, eerily pristine, while others are destroyed as if something massive has brushed through them without slowing down.
No bodies. But there were no survivors either. Just blood, a lot of it.
Eventually, he reaches a section marked differently from the rest. Cleaner signage, thicker doors and wider hallways meant to project exclusivity. The walls here were reinforced, the damage less obvious but more deliberate.
The VIP section.
It was as if whatever tore through the hotel had passed through this area with intent rather than chaos. Warhound doesn't know why, but something about it stands apart from the others.
Warhound moves down the corridor at a pace just shy of cautious, boots whispering against the polished floor. The hallways feels wrong, too intact for a place that has bled this much.
Gold-engraved nameplates line the doors, each one a quiet claim of ownership in a building that no longer belongs to anyone. He lets his eyes drift across the names without really reading them.
Until one stops him.
Ikra.
His body reacts before his mind does. He doesn't step back, he just stands there staring at the letters, letting the memories come whether he wants them or not. Ikra had never chased like others did.
Most hunters rushed, overcommitted, burned themselves trying to end things quickly. Ikra was different. Every pursuit came with a purpose, restrained. If Warhound escaped, Ikra didn't rage or press harder the next time. Instead, he adjusted.
That was the part that stayed with him. Every chase taught Ikra something new. Routes that once saved Warhound stopped being safe. Patterns he hadn't realized he repeated were cut off before he could use them again.
Ikra learned Warhound's instincts before Warhound could change them. And each time, the distance closed. At first, Ikra was like any other who had tried to chase him down before.
But unlike the others, Ikra had a reason to hunt him down, Warhound had his daughter, Pin. There wasn't any room for error for Ikra, at least, Warhound knew he wouldn't stop until he ended up dead.
I'm not letting myself get caught.
I'm not in the wrong.
I'm doing this for her safety.
He exhales now, long and slow, reassuring himself before going back in the present. Warhound swallows and looks at the door again, forcing his thoughts back to the present.
This room, if there's anything left of him as a person, it'll be in here.
Not as the hunter who's currently tracking Warhound down, or the weapon he trained himself to be, but Ikra as a person. Someday, Pin's going to ask about her father, and he can't just circle around the truth when it comes.
He turns and grips the handle beneath Ikra's name. The metal is cold, grounding. He tells himself he's opening it for Pin. That whatever he finds, a journal, personal effects, even silence, he'll bring it back as a memento for her.
I'm sorry Pin, but you'll have to settle for this until the storm passes.
The latch clicks.
The door opens.
And Ikra was inside.
He's turned partly away, posture loose, attention elsewhere. Ikra was caught mid-thought or mid-motion. When the door opens, he turned sharply, eyes widening just a fraction before narrowing in focus.
Surprise flashes across his face.
Then recognition follows.
The room falls silent, tension snapping into place. Warhound doesn't move, his mind racing at the sudden meetup. He met Ikra's gaze, both of them watching each other to see what they would do.
Ikra's lips curl first.
Then he laughs.
It was short, almost relieved. Like a breath he's been holding for far too long. The sound echoes off the walls as purple light blooms across his body, crawling over his skin like living fire.
Ikra doesn't give him time to act, closing the distance between them instantly. One moment Ikra was across the room, the next he's already there, the purple flame flaring brighter as his shoulder slams into Warhound's guard.
Warhound was barely able to get his arms up before the impact sent them both crashing through the wall behind him. Stone explodes outward as both of them are sent freefalling.
Wind roars past as the building vanishes above them, the village rushing up in a blue of rooftops and broken streets. Warhound twists instinctively, trying to orient himself while Ikra was easily able to control his fall.
They crash down the village. The ground buckles beneath them as they hit, debris erupting outward in a violent ring. Ikra lands first, absorbing the impact with inhuman ease driving his foot down into Warhound's chest and slamming him into the shattered stone.
"I've waited for this!" Ikra roars, voice carrying through the ruined streets as he kicks Warhound full force into the ground again. Warhound skids across broken pavement, claws scraping as he digs his fingers into the earth to keep from being sent tumbling.
Pain lances through his ribs, breath tearing from his lungs, but he forces himself upright, refusing to collapse. Ikra stalks toward him, purple fire casting jagged light across the village walls.
"Never thought I'd see this," he mocks, amusement curling his words. "A dog learning to move like a cat when it finally realizes it's cornered." Warhound shifts just in time, a punch tearing through the space where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
The shockwave alone sends him sliding back a few inches, boots screaming against stone as he barely stays standing.
Another blow follows.
He ducks.
Another.
He twists, deflecting just enough to survive, each near-miss jolting his bones and forcing him back step by step. Ikra keeps pressing, cutting off every angle, herding him through the open village street.
Ikra laughs, low and cruel. "Look at you," he says, circling closer. "Always running. Always slipping away." Warhound's breathing grows ragged as he moves, muscles burning, vision narrowing.
Every time he avoids a punch, he's launched backward, losing ground, forced closer to collapse. "Every chase," Ikra continues, purple fire flaring brighter, "I learned." Another strike sends Warhound staggering.
"Every escape," Ikra says, stepping into his space. "Only brought you closer to this.." He lunges again, driving Warhound back through the village ruins, voice dropping to a near whisper.
"And now," Ikra finishes, "there's nowhere left to go."
Warhound stays upright by sheer force of will, scraping strength from pain and memory alike. The village around them lies broken and empty, their fight tearing fresh scars into streets that have already suffered enough.
And through it all, one thought keeps him from moving, from fighting back even as Ikra closes in.
Pin is still here.
Ikra keeps moving, never letting the pressure ease. Every step he takes forces Warhound back across the broken street, boots scraping, breath tearing at his lungs. The purple flame around Ikra flickers and roars.
"You know," Ikra says, almost casually, "I didn't believe the reports about you." Warhound doges another blow, shoulders screaming. With the pressure he was under, he couldn't afford to respond.
"They said you were a bloodthirsty killer," Ikra continues, circling him. "They said that you enjoyed it. A psychopath made of pure violence wrapped in skin." He scoffs. "I thought differently. I thought that they didn't understand you."
Another strike. Warhound barely deflects it, stumbling back. "I thought you were misunderstood," Ikra says. "That you became this way because no one bothered to look closer. Because I believe that somewhere in there, you still have a sense of right and wrong."
Warhound keeps his mouth shut, eyes locked on Ikra's movements. His tone shifts, bitterness seeping in. "Every time I thought that," he says, "I told myself I was different. Smarter. More disciplined."
His laugh is hollow now. "Naive. That's what I was." The flame around him flares brighter. "I hated you," Ikra snaps. "Because you reminded me of my own mistakes. Because you proved that believing you're right doesn't make you right."
He swings again. Warhound ducks, barely staying upright.
"Say something," Ikra growls.
Warhound doesn't.
Ikra's anger spikes. "Say something!" he shouts, voice cracking through the village. "If you think this is funny, then laugh! That's what you've always done. Run, hide, stay quiet while everyone else suffers!"
Still silence.
Warhound knows better than to speak. Ikra's rage was pure, self-feeding. Words won't reach him. They'll only sharpen the blade, further resenting him. Ikra's fists tremble. His voice drops, rough and unsteady.
"...Where is she?"
Warhound stiffens at his words. "My daughter," Ikra snarls, stepping closer. "Where is my daughter?!" He shouted out before jumping full force to slam Warhound with another strike.
"STOP!"
A small body darts between them. Pin jumps in front of Warhound, arms spread wide like she can somehow block a grown man's punch. Ikra's attack slams to a halt, stopping just inches from her face.
Pin squeezes her eyes shut for a second. Then slowly, opens them. "Don't– don't hurt him!" she blurts out, voice shaky and too loud, like she's trying to scare herself into being brave.
"You're not allowed!" Her hands tremble, but she keeps them up anyway. "He didn't do anything to you! You're being mean!" The street goes silent, Ikra frozen. His power was still active, but his body wouldn't move.
He stares down at her, not at her stance or her defiance, but at the way she's clearly terrified and still refusing to move. The way she stands crooked, feet not quite steady, chin lifted because she has to be.
Something about the kid standing in front of him feels… wrong. Familiar in a way Ikra can't immediately place, like a half-remembered dream that refuses to surface. He stares at her face, at the way she stands, crooked, stubborn, trying to be brave. And for a moment, the flames around him dimmed without realizing why.
Then Warhound shouts.
"Pin, get away from him!"
The name hits Ikra like a blow.
Pin flinches, but she doesn't move. Instead, she turns her head just enough to glare back at Warhound, eyes wide and wet. "No!" she snaps, her voice cracking. "You're hurt because of him! You can barely stand!"
She plants her feet harder, like that alone can keep the world from moving her. "You're always telling me not to run into danger, but you're the one who keeps getting beat up!" Ikra's breath catches. His eyes widen as the pieces finally slam together.
"...Pin," he says softly, the word trembling on his tongue. Confusion rushes through him, fast and desperate. "Wait," Ikra says, lowering his stance, hands spreading open. Not in surrender, but in something closer to pleading.
"Listen to me. I'm not your enemy." Pin shoots him a look. "Yes you are! You tried to punch him!" Ikra swallows. "I… I'm your father." The words hang in the air, fragile and heavy.
Pin blinks. "That's stupid," she says immediately. "My dad's–my dad's–" She falters, brows knitting together. "He's not… you." Ikra shakes his head, urgency creeping into his voice.
"He took you away from me," he says, pointing at Warhound. "He stopped us from ever meeting. From the very beginning." Warhound struggles to move, claws digging into the ground. "Pin–"
Ikra cuts him off. "Think about it," he says quickly, eyes never leaving her. "How long have you been running? How many times has he dragged you from place to place without explaining why?"
Pin hesitates.
Ikra presses on, voice tightening. "How many questions has he dodged, the ones that really matter? How many times did he tell you later, or switched the topic to something else?"
Pin's fingers curl into her sleeves. Her eyes flicker, not to Ikra, but back toward Warhound. Ikra sees it and keeps going. "Doesn't it seem strange," he says, "that no one ever comes looking for you? That he knows exactly when to leave before trouble starts?"
Pin's breathing quickens. "Stop it," she mutters. "He's afraid," Ikra says, almost bitterly. "Afraid of what you'd learn if you met me. ABout what you would think of him once you finally realize–"
"Stop!" Pin shouts, hands flying up to cover her ears. "Shut up! Just shut up!" Her voice breaks halfway through, turning thin and uneven. She shakes her head hard, like she can physically throw the words away.
"You're lying! You're just saying stuff to make him look bad!" She turns back toward Ikra, eyes blazing with tears she refuses to let fall. "You don't get to say things like that! You don't know him!"
Ikra falters, struck by the rawness in her voice. "I don't care what you say," Pin continues, stomping her foot. "He's the one who stayed. He's the one who kept me safe. So just– just leave him alone!"
Ikra wavered, unstable from her words. Warhound watches behind her, heart pounding. Slowly, painfully, he pushes himself upright, one arm hanging uselessly at his side. His breathing is uneven, every breath scraping, but his voice came clear.
"...Pin," he says.
She tenses, shoulders stiff, like she's bracing for something she doesn't want to hear. He doesn't look at Ikra when he speaks. His eyes stay on her. "He's telling the truth." Pin\s head snap toward him as soon as she heard the words.
"What?"
Ikra stiffens. "He is your father," Warhound continues, voice low, steady despite the blood at the corner of his mouth. "Ikra is." The words land hard, with Pin staring at him for a second, mouth slightly open, before her face twists.
"No," she says immediately. "No, he's not." Ikra steps forward, hope flashing in his eyes. "Pin–"
"Don't!" she snaps. "Don't say my name like that!" She points back at Warhound. "I know he's not my dad. I figured that out a long time ago." Her voice cracks, but she keeps going. "That's why I kept asking questions. That's why I wanted answers."
Warhound swallows.
Pin faces Ikra again, eyes burning. "But you?" she says. "You don't get to be my dad." Ikra's voice softens. "I never stopped being–"
"You tried to hurt him!" Pin shouts, jabbing a finger toward Warhound. "You were going to kill him! Dads aren't supposed to do that!"
"Pin, you don't know but Warhound–" Ikra starts.
"I don't care!" Pin yells. "He stayed. He ran with me. He got hurt for me." Her voice shakes now, anger bleeding into something rawer. "And where were you?" she demands suddenly. "Where were you when the cloaked men kept chasing us, night and day?!"
Ikra freezes. "The… cloaked men?"
"They kept coming," Pin says, words tumbling out. "Everywhere we went. They tried to grab me, to kill Warhound just to lock me up…" She clenches her fists. "If you were my dad, where were you then?!"
Ikra's brows knit together, confusion overtaking his face. "I– I don't know who you're talking about." Pin laughs once, sharp and bitter. "Yeah. Figures." She steps back toward Warhound, putting herself between them again.
"You don't get to show up now and say you're my dad," she says. "Not after all that."
"I don't want a dad who hurts the only person who ever protected me," Pin finishes. Warhound watches, silent, heart heavy while Ikra stands there, finally understanding that whatever chance he once had was already gone.
Pin's breathing turns fast and uneven, her words coming sharper, louder, like she's afraid if she stops talking everything will collapse. Warhound steps forward despite the pain, reaching out with his good arm.
"Pin," he says quietly. "That's enough." She jerks away from his touch. "No!" she snaps. "He needs to hear it! He needs to–" Before she can finish, Warhound makes a decision in the moment.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
In one swift, practiced motion, he strikes precise and controlled at her neck. Pin's body goes limp almost instantly, her words cutting off mid-breath as she collapses into his arms.
"Pin!" Ikra shouts, lunging forward on instinct. "Stop." Warhound's voice is sharp now, final. Ikra freezes, unsure on his own decisions now. "You don't want her saying any more than she already has."
Warhound said as he held Pin close, her head resting against his shoulder. His eyes lock onto Ikra's. "Trust me." Ikra's powers flickered wildly, his hands trembling at his sides. Everything he thought he understood about Warhound, about himself, about his daughter, all shattering too fast for him to grasp.
"...What was she talking about?" Ikra asks hoarsely. "The cloaked men. Who was she referring to?" Warhound looks down at Pin, his expression tightening. "What I'm doing," he says quietly, "is necessary. For her safety."
Ikra takes a step forward. "Then tell me. I'm still her father, I deserve to know so I can–"
"No," Warhound cuts in. "If you really want her safe, you don't." Ikra stiffens from his words. "Until she's finally safe," Warhound continues, voice low and unyielding, "you should stay oblivious to what's really going on."
Ikra opens his mouth to argue, to demand more answers, but Warhound doesn't give him the chance. With Pin secured in his arms, he turns, takes two steps, and leaps. The person he chased so desperately vanishing into the ruined rooftops and smoke-choked air in a heartbeat.
The street suddenly goes silent. Ikra stands there, unmoving, his power already dissipated. His fists clench, then loosen. Every instinct screams at him to chase, to take his daughter back, to tear answers from Warhound by force.
But was that really the right choice?
He stays where he is, caught between rage and doubt, staring at the empty space they disappeared into. Minutes pass, maybe seconds, he doesn't know. Because for him, it could very well be an eternity.
Then… movement.
At the edge of his vision, someone stumbles into view from behind the rubble. A survivor. Dust-covered, breathing hard from running nonstop. Ikra's gaze sharpens as recognition sets in.
"...Iyu."
Iyu doesn't hesitate when he sees Ikra. The moment their eyes meet, he breaks into a hurried stride, boots crunching over debris as he closes the distance. "Dad," Iyu says quickly, breathless, "you have to come with me. Someone who helped me, who saved me, he's currently being cased. We need help, now."
Ikra turns to him, but there's a delay, just a fraction of a second too long. His gaze isn't as sharp the way it usually is in moments like this. It's distant, fractured, still in a daze from what happened.
"Where's Ryu?" Ikra asks instead. Iyu blinks. "Ryu?" He shakes his head. "I… I don't know. I haven't seen him since–"
Ikra's jaw tightens. He looks past Iyu, scanning the ruined village, the smoke, the broken streets, trying to find anything that might give him a clue to where his other son was. "...Then we find him first," Ikra says.
Iyu frowns. "But–"
"We'll help him," Ikra cuts in, firmer now. "But we don't move forward until we know where your brother is." He finally looks directly at Iyu, eyes intense. "We're moving. Stay close to me."
There's something off about it. The tone isn't wrong, but the priority is. This isn't how Ikra usually thinks. Not in a crisis. And especially not when it comes to Ryu and Iyu. The father he knew would rather focus on something else, saying that his children could handle at least this much.
Iyu nods anyway, though confusion flickers across his face. He doesn't argue. He just watches.
He's different.
Distracted.
But he keeps that thought to himself. Part of him wanted to push back, to insist they go straight to Pheo. Another part, the louder one, knows better than to go back. If Ryu joins them, then Pheo's chances skyrocket.
But if they go with Ikra and he couldn't handle the entity…
Iyu swallows.
Fear coils tight in his chest at the thought of it. The way it moved, the way it felt wrong to just look at. If Ryu was anywhere nearby, they needed him. Not just for Pheo, but to save the village.
So Iyu falls into step beside his father, silent now with eyes alert, studying Ikra. His posture, movements, the way his fists clench and unclench like he's holding himself together by force alone.